


winter kept us warm

by Zercalo



Series: Neverending Stories [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Future Fic, M/M, Magic, Memory Loss, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Magic, Vienna, but not season six compliant, maybe I should write a food blog instead of ff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zercalo/pseuds/Zercalo
Summary: Derek wakes up feeling like he’s lost a few rounds with a cargo train, with Stiles watching him from the other side of a mountain ash line.





	

  
  


He's been rolling in a stench of a dozen omegas.

 

And that's only the tip of the iceberg. His head hurts. His entire body hurts, really, and badly. His mouth tastes like he's been drinking acid. There's only one heartbeat in the room with him, quick but even, so Derek inhales again, deliberately. Omegas. Somewhat stale air of a small, poorly aired room. Beef and garlic, apple pie of some sort.

 

Stiles.

 

Derek fights to open his eyes, but they feel glued shut. It's not that he doesn't trust his nose, he does. It's just, it's been a few years since he's seen Stiles, who's supposed to be in Europe somewhere, anyway. Not at... wherever Derek is at now.

 

Rubbing helps, though his hand feels weak and sluggish, and his eyes come unstuck. Derek is on a couch, where at least seven or eight omegas have been lying on in the last few months. He turns his heavy head to the right direction, and yes. That is Stiles, crouching about four feet away and watching Derek carefully.

 

Derek opens his mouth to ask for water, but before he can, Stiles points his phone and snaps a picture of Derek.

 

“For Cora,” he explains evenly. “I sent her one earlier, but I'm not sure she believed me you're actually still alive.”

 

“What...?” The word is like a mouthful of chalk and cinnamon in his mouth, and it makes his throat spasm as he tries to cough.

 

“Here,” Stiles says, “Drink this.”

 

He lets a bottle of water roll toward Derek. It hits the couch before Derek can sit up straight and grab it. It's sealed shut, and it takes him three tries before his hand will push hard enough to unseal it.

 

Whatever has happened to him, there's been wolfsbane involved.

 

Derek drinks all the water before it occurs to him that maybe he shouldn't have. Stiles doesn't comment, he just pushes another bottle toward the couch, typing something on his phone with the other hand. Now that Derek is sitting, he can see that Stiles is crouching outside of a line of mountain ash. His knees are breaching the circle, but his toes are outside so he only needs to sway backwards if Derek, say, tries to attack him.

 

“Don't look at me like that,” Stiles grumbles with a frown, pocketing his phone in the middle of a buzz. He meets Derek's glare. “The headache and the muscle ache? It's because this is the first time in months your body has been allowed to heal to this degree. The acid and gunfire aftertaste? It means the wolfsbane-nightshade-whatever else concoction hasn't left your blood system yet, which, you know. It means you might have a relapse in control.”

 

“I'm fine,” Derek says. His voice is as sickly as he feels down to his bones, but at least he can speak. “What happened?”

 

Stiles snorts, “Nothing good. Obviously. What do you remember?”

 

Derek thinks back. He remembers... Cora. He's been to see her. They've gone running together, someplace hot and warm, and full of annoying insects. Then he went back to the apartment in New York, to attend a bonding ceremony. He stayed there for a while afterwards, doing nothing in particular – reading books, taking walks, slowly painting the apartment one room after the other.

 

And then this.

 

“What are you doing in New York?”

 

Stiles laughs, a short, high sound that's half amused and half hysterical. “How are your senses recovering, buddy? You think you can hear other people in the building now? Try, come on.”

 

Derek lets the low fuzz of distant conversation come in focus. It's a man and a woman talking, there's a television program on the low yakking on in the background and Derek can hear it all clearly, but doesn't understand much.

 

Stiles is wearing an expectant half smile, but Derek leaves him to wait as he refocuses on a different apartment, the one directly underneath them. No one's home there, but in the one next door, a youngish voice mutters something into her chin and okay, it's weird.

 

It kinda clicks together with the last he's heard about Stiles, some months ago when Scott called to ask him about something new crawling the streets of Beacon Hills.

 

“We're not in New York.”

 

“Not even a little bit.”

 

“Germany?” Derek hazards, because the language he's hearing is definitely German.

 

“Austria, actually. Vienna.”

 

Stiles gets up, moves away from the edge of the mountain ash circle.

 

“How did I get here?”

 

“Shipped in, is the best guess, across the ocean and up the Danube,” Stiles says, voice barely loud enough to carry over the annoying sound of the plastic bag he's digging through. “Like a zoo animal, if you really need a visual.”

 

Maybe it's true, but it doesn't spark any memories. Derek tries to envision himself in a cage, grasps at any sounds, smells or images that might be connected to a sensation like that. There's nothing. So he changes the subject, “Scott said you were staying with your grandparents. In Poland.”

 

“Yeah, I was.  My grandma found me a job here, so. It's not that far. You hungry?”

 

“No.”

 

Stiles pushes a tray with food into the circle anyway, with another water bottle. “I'll leave this here. I need to get out for a bit. When I come back, I'll remove the circle.”

 

“I'm fine, Stiles,” Derek says tightly. He knows well what it feels like to have to hold tightly onto the control, and he's nowhere near that right now. He just feels sick, and tired.

 

“Yes, well.” Stiles pushes his shirt out of the way a little, and reveals a red angry tissue of a new scar. “Sorry. Okay? I'm really sorry, but this is safer for the both of us right now, and especially me. I'll come back soon, I just need to talk to some people.”

 

He turns to leave, throwing a thick jacket over his shoulders – it's winter already? How long was Derek out of it, anyway?  


“What if I need to use the bathroom?” Derek calls out. He's had two bottles of water, it's safe to assume he might.

 

“Oh my God,” Stiles mutters, hands in the air and sounding exactly like he did when he was sixteen, impatient and anxious. He opens a door next to the small kitchenette, empties a bucket of cleaning supplies onto the floor and brings it back to the middle of the room. “Here.”

 

“ _Stiles._ ”

 

“Look, we already had to chase down a half-naked werewolf this month, and she seemed fine at first, too. I almost died, okay. It wasn't pretty.” Derek relaxes his shoulders, resigned, thinking about how deep that wound must have been to scar so thickly and how close it was to Stiles' neck. Like he can't even see he's won, Stiles' voice turns small, “Just a few more hours, until the thing they shoot you up with wears off, okay? Derek, please.”

 

The word itself on the side, he doesn't sound pleading at all. Derek still has to look away as he nods. “What happened to me?”

 

“Nothing good,” Stiles says, again. Derek raises his head again to glare at him. “We'd rather – it would be better if you could remember it yourself, actually.”  


“We?”

 

“If I tell you details, then, I don't know, you can use that to create patches for the holes in your memory. And we need you to actually remember stuff, because we're hoping for the info we can use. Like, against them.”

 

Derek repeats, sharper, “ _We?_ ”

 

“So you should, you know. Think about it? Every little bit might be helpful. Okay, then, see you later.”

 

Derek doesn't try to stop him this time, so Stiles leaves the room. He locks the door behind him, jogs down the hallways like he's running late for something important. And Derek lays back down on the Omega-stench infused couch and tries his best to remember anything between painting Laura's old room and waking up here. He forces down food, which is too greasy and makes his stomach feel like he's eaten a shovel, but manages to hold it in.

 

Nothing comes back to him in the whole of the four hours it takes Stiles to return. There's New York, and then there's nothing until this place. No cages, no strange wolfsbane drugs, no idea what he's been through.

 

The circle of mountain ash is quite small, there's nothing inside of it except Derek and the couch. There's barely enough space for it as it is, between the small kitchen table and the bed. This isn't an apartment, it's a room with not much more than a kitchen sink and a probably tiny bathroom on the side.

 

Stiles comes back with cheeks red from the cold and the smell of vanilla and rum and a few strangers clinging to his clothes. He peers into the bucket, and then sighs in relief.

 

“Okay, wow. I've been dreading this. The thought of that bucket has been putting me off my apricot dumplings.”

 

“You're welcome,” Derek says pointedly. Stiles steps over the ash line to put his jacket on his bed freely, and Derek, who's been working himself up into the lovely mood he's in right now, snaps, “Fine.”

 

He pulls the bucket closer, but doesn't manage to undo more than the first button on his obviously borrowed jeans before Stiles catches up. He yelps, and somehow manages to drag his foot across the line at the same time, backwards, and break the circle.   


“You could have said you needed to go, geez,” he complains, but Derek is already closing the door to the bathroom by the time he finishes and therefore doesn't feel like he needs to answer.

 

The bathroom is small, with a shower tucked into a corner. It has no window, just a ventilation shaft. The light comes on above his head. Derek relieves his bladder and without much thought strips off the stinky clothes and throws it outside. Without the omega stench that rubbed into it from the couch, there's nothing but Stiles inside the cramped little room and Derek feels like he can finally breathe.

 

The water pressure in the shower is surprisingly good. Derek lets it wash away the muscle ache out of him before he even reaches for the shampoo. Through the waterfall, he can hear Stiles in the room as he vacuums the ash, clutters through the kitchen area and digs around a drawer. His phone keeps vibrating, but he doesn't answer it. When the door to the bathroom opens, Derek is expecting it so he just glances over his shoulder.

 

Stiles is holding a hand over his face. “I'm not looking!”

 

His other hand is holding a towel and some clothes against his chest.

 

Derek turns the water off, muttering, “How old are you?”

 

“Eh, twenty?”

 

“It's a rhetorical question, Stiles. I don't care if you're looking or not.”

 

Stiles trusts the things he's brought with him forward, blindly. “That's not a matter of age, it's a matter of you being a werewolf.”

 

“No. It's not.”

 

Stiles loses that argument because he's apparently unable to hold a conversation with his eyes shut, but he does wait until Derek's taken the stuff he's brought before clearing out of the bathroom. It's a pair of sweat suit bottoms and an old shirt – the letters have faded, but Derek can tell it used to be a part of Beacon Hills High School gym uniform from the fading colors.

 

Derek wipes the mirror to take a good look at his reflection. His skin is so pale it looks white against his hair, which has grown so long that a few wet strands are brushing his chin. He hasn't had a haircut in at least six months, but someone's been trimming his beard occasionally. Huh. Weird.

 

And his face is as full of cuts and bruises as the rest of his body. They're healing, yellowing slowly like he's human again. Though he can feel it deep inside, the call and the wild, he still shifts. Just to make sure, to convince himself he's alright. The teeth ache on their way out, his eyes glow a bright, cold blue. He's okay, mostly. When he shifts back, only the few deepest cuts and bruises are marking his skin.

 

Derek puts on the borrowed clothes and leaves the bathroom door open to air out the steam.

 

“Here,” Stiles says, handing him the phone, which is vibrating on a call again. “I dare not answer her before she hears from you, she might eat me long-distance.”

 

The phone is lit with the picture of Cora in the mid of an epic eye-roll. It takes Derek's damp thumb a few tries before he manages to take the call.

 

“I'm looking at the flight schedule _right now,”_ Cora says into his ear, pissed and low. “And if you don't let me hear my brother _this instant,_ I will get on the first flight that's headed for Europe and when I get there...”

  
“Cora,” Derek interrupts that without a doubt imaginative and colorful threat. “It's me.”

 

“Derek,” she says after a pause. “Jesus, _Derek_.”

 

“Hi.”

 

She laughs shortly, with more relief than amusement. “I was starting to think I'll never hear from you again.”

 

“I'm fine.”

 

“You're not fine, it's not _fine_.”

 

“Cora. I'm okay. Nothing permanent, I promise. What happened to me?”

 

He catches Stiles' disapproving look and turns away so he can't see it. Cora asks carefully, “You don't remember?”

 

“No.”

 

“Anything at all?”

 

“No,” Derek says and because he feels like he's disappointing them, adds, “I'm sorry.”

 

“You can come home, you know. You don't have to listen to Stiles, you don't have to stay and help, okay? We're working on your papers, I'll send you money, you can just come home.”

 

Derek's pretty sure he can't make that decision before he finds out what happened to him. He says, trying for placating, “Maybe. We'll see.”

 

Cora snorts on the other side of the line, like she hasn't actually expected anything less from him. “Well, I can't tell you right now. In a few weeks, if you don't remember it yourself, we'll explain, but in the meantime... sorry. You're our best shot at stopping it from happening to others, don't try to cheat and fuck it up, okay? Eat some foreign food, send me pictures of Vienna, lay low. And if you want to be there to welcome your niece into this world, wrap that up in four months and come home.”

 

“What?”

 

“I'm pregnant. And I know nothing about raising a kid, so don't kill yourself.”

 

“But... How?”

 

Cora snorts. “Seriously, Derek?”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“I don't know. I wasn't careful enough – I guess I was a little out of sorts, fearing my only remaining family was gone forever. It doesn't matter. I'm keeping it, obviously – I'm keeping _her_. McCall's got Beacon Hill sorted out, maybe I'll buy a little house there or something. I haven't decided yet. But you'll be there, right?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, whatever you want.”

 

“Good. Go make Stiles float a pen for you, and call me tomorrow. I'll get your fake, expensive papers ready.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Bye, Derek. I'm glad you're safe now.”

 

She hangs up. Derek hands the phone back to Stiles, dazed. “Who's the father?”

 

“Well, it's not me!” Stiles says with a healthy mix of _oh my god I'm toast_ and indignity.

 

But that hasn't even occurred to Derek. “I mean, I didn't even ask. She caught me off guard.”

 

“I don't know, she didn't say his name. She's not planning to tell him, either, which isn't really okay, but whatever. Maybe it's for the best, what with the fangs and claws and stuff. Scott and Dr. Deaton went to see her a few weeks ago, she's doing great.”

 

“Thanks,” Derek says, because he _is_ grateful they've been keeping an eye on her sister while he was – wherever he was.

 

Stiles grins at him, eyes bright with amusement. His face is sharper than Derek remembers, hair different. He smells the same, though – anxiety, weariness, medicine, magic. A lot more magic than there used to be.

 

“Okay, float me a pen,” Derek says.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Cora told me to make you float me a pen.”

 

“Cora needs to watch less Buffy, that's not how it works. You hungry?”

 

Derek shrugs. There's the old, familiar, wolfsbane-induced queasiness in his stomach. He's had to force himself to eat earlier that day, on a wild guess that it's probably been awhile before he's had any real food. The queasiness is lessening, though, it'll pass and the night is falling. He'll regret it if he doesn't eat now.

 

“Well, _I'm_ hungry. But am I cooking or are we going out?”

 

“You can cook?”

 

“Sure,” Stiles says, then rolls his eyes at Derek's skeptical look. “It depends on your definition of cooking, I guess. But I can definitely fry some sausages and boil some potatoes if you don't feel like going out. So.”

 

“Let's go out.”

 

He's never been to Vienna, after all. He remembers some of its architecture and art from a college course, and he knows it's old and beautiful, like most European cities. It seems wrong to catch the first glance of it from the inside of this tiny apartment instead of through the window of the cab driving him from the airport, like he's doing it backwards. In a way, he is.  

“Okay, then, wear this until we can buy you some clothes. We can't today, the malls are closing soon.” _This_ is an old pair of jeans that'd probably be too big on two of him. “It's belonged to one of the werewolves I've detoxed on my couch – _no_ , Derek, you can't throw it away, come on, I've washed it, like, a dozen times since.”

 

That suggests he's worn it, so Derek reluctantly picks it up. No trace of omega stench. He changes, ignoring the way Stiles is sniffing at him and looking elsewhere like there's some sort of moral code Derek is breaking by being naked.

 

“I'll throw away your couch,” he warns, once dressed.

 

“Don't you dare, or you'll sleep on the floor.”

 

“Fine,” Derek says. “Come on.”

 

It's snowing outside, but the snow is mixed with rain. Stiles has given him a sweater to wear, he had no extra jacket. Derek's fine, though. He's rarely cold, and it's not that bad outside. Just wet, shallow shoes sinking into the squelching mounds of snow and letting the filthy water soak his feet.

 

There's not many people out on the sidewalk, though the street they walk out onto is wide and busy, the tram tracks cutting along. The lights of the city are harsh against the starless sky, the air is thick with smoke and pollution. Derek catches more than just German from the people they pass by, low swearing and shriek laughter.

 

“Here,” Stiles says, catching a pinch of Derek's sweater at the elbow to pull him inside through a door painted blue. It's a warm rustic place with wooden benches and brick walls. They find a table in a corner, away from the doors and the windows, semi-private and quiet. Stiles takes off his jacket and the knitted brown hat, throws them aside with a smile. His nose is red when he sits down, the color bright across his cheeks and spreading down his neck, darker; eyelashes black and dump from the snow. It's a good look on him.

 

Derek speaks only a few words of German, but that's enough to pick an innards stew off the menu. Stiles gets some sort of pasta with cabbage, which smells weird yet gets him to produce happy little noises in the back of his throat.

 

Derek suddenly needs a distraction.

 

“So, how does it work?”

 

“What?”

 

“The magic? According to Scott, you're in Europe to learn that, not detox werewolves on your couch.”

 

Stiles waves his fork, bits of pasta falling off. “Honestly? I mostly rearrange things and hope like hell it works. Like with mountain ash.”

 

“Does it usually work?”

 

“It always works. Startles me every fucking time.” Around the next mouthful, he adds, “Belief, my ass. If it worked on belief, I'd never even learn a card trick.”

 

That's simply not true, and Derek remembers all too clearly how easily the supernatural came to Stiles since day one. How easily he believed. How he adapted and rolled with it and learned the rules of it just so he could find the patterns and connections when no one else could.

 

But Derek isn't fit to play anyone's therapist, so he doesn't say anything about that.

 

Stiles lets his fork clunk free against the plate, says, “Here, let me show you.” He takes the saltshaker and pours some salt onto the table top. “Give me your hand.” Derek doesn't hesitate. Stiles takes a hold of his hand like he's afraid it'll close reflexively, hooking his thumb and forefinger so they keep Derek's fingers uncurled.   He licks the thumb of his other hand, dubs it into the salt and presses in the middle of Derek's open palm with a grimace. “Sorry, I know it's gross.”

 

Derek's dick doesn't think it's gross, but Stiles is too busy rubbing the salt and the spit into the skin to pay proper attention to Derek's reaction.

 

The grit of the salt turns slimy after a few long seconds of effort. Stiles flinches, his thumb stutters for just a moment and a terrible, syrupy smell bursts around them.

 

“Told you it always catches me by surprise,” Stiles says, hands retreating, not quite meeting Derek's eyes, but still wearing a huge smile. “There, is that better?”

 

Derek isn't sure what he means for a moment. He wipes his hand off a napkin, trying to pinpoint what's changed besides the dim burn of the arousal in his gut, what is Stiles expecting him to see.

 

“Derek? You're not feeling better? I could swear that...”

 

“Oh.” He does feel better, is the thing. He feels a deep hunger and well familiar urge to move, the lingering aches are dimmer and no, he hasn't felt this well just a moment ago. “No, it worked. Healing?”

 

“Ha! Not with Nemeton taint like mine, no way. Healing takes a lot of purity. That was just some salt-based detox. The other hand?”

 

Derek gladly lets him, enjoys the press of the thumb into his palm, though less of that scum seeps out of his palm this time – not even enough to cover the scent of Stiles' spit. He feels fine when it's done. Completely all right. “Why didn't you do this to begin with?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, you were metabolizing it away fine,” Stiles says with such a forced nonchalance, Derek is instantly convinced he's made up this salt-based detox spell on the spot.

 

“Really?” he asks mildly when Stiles hands him another napkin.

 

“Shut up, it worked. Spit is, er, it's risky.”

 

“Why use it, then?”

 

“You'd rather I bled on you?”

 

Derek bites down on the first answer, comes up with, “Yes.”

 

“Screw you,” Stiles laughs, wiping the spilled salt off the table top. “Anyway, I'd think you'd go for tears.”

 

“I didn't know they were an option.”

 

Oddly enough, Stiles' shoulders relax a fraction in clear relief at the words. “It's the kind of magic that relies on bodily fluids – spit, sweat, tears, semen, blood. That's listed in order, by the way, according to the power it holds. Spit is risky because it's the weakest.”

 

While one of the ways Derek pays respects to Laura's memory is abiding by her no-practicing-magic rule – not that he's ever been prone to it, anyway – he does remember hanging around with Peter a lot, before the fire. He remembers some of it. He knows exactly what kind of magic Stiles is talking about, though he hasn't made the connection immediately.

 

“Do I get to choose next time you decide to experiment on me?”

 

Stiles lets his mouth fall open, in a completely fake show of indignity. “That was an awesome and a successful _improvisation_ , actually, and you're very welcome.”

 

“Thank you,” Derek says, and he means it. For everything, for whatever Stiles has done so they could be where they are now, safe and warm and not quite discussing the fact that sex magic is obviously possible between them, even with the weakest conduit there is.

Stiles quirks his mouth in the only acknowledgment of the gratefulness. “And no, you don't get to choose, because you _would_ choose tears.”

 

“You think?” Derek murmurs and their eyes hold for a long, still moment.

 

“Or blood,” Stiles says, looking down and away, picking up his fork again, “which boils down to the same since you'd have to draw blood to make me tear up, and I'd totally cry if you bit me.”

 

“Nope,” Derek tells him lightly. “When there's a choice, I'll take a good round of a sweating activity over bleeding and crying any day.”

 

Stiles stabs his pasta with a huff. “Shut up and eat your creepy intestines soup, Derek.”

 

Derek does exactly that, and it feels like he's won every delicious, hearty bite of it.

 

It's not even snowing any longer when they head back, it's only plain rain. The temperature has dropped a few degrees, just enough for Derek to feel the chill, too.

 

Stiles takes out an extra blanket and get Derek one of his pillows. Derek moves them off the freaking couch before they soak in the omega stench and picks a spot on the floor, away from the hot radiator.

 

“Oh my God, what do you have against that couch? It's perfectly okay.”

 

“It stinks.”

 

“The other werewolves loved that it smelled like werewolves before them. I couldn't get them to move, not even to eat.”

 

Or to bathe, apparently. “The other werewolves were omegas desperate for any contact. To me, it just stinks like invasion and really terrible hygiene.”

 

There's the sound of the belt opening, then Stiles halts and sighs. “What about my bed? That should only smell like me.” Derek looks at him over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Mostly like me. Come on, I hate the thought of you sleeping on the floor.”

 

“It's warm and clean here. It's fine.” He's slept on much worse places, this is nothing. It's downright pleasant, with the carpet thick and as clean as a carpet can be. But Stiles looks unhappy and dejected, so Derek approaches the bed, bends over to take a sniff. If anyone but Stiles has slept in it, it hasn't been recently. Derek can't smell anyone but him, detergent and... bay leaves and rosemary. He feels around the edge of the mattress, pulls out a small bag of herbs which also smells like lavender and mustard seeds.

 

“It's for the nightmares,” Stiles says, grabs it from Derek. “Well, against them, it repeals nightmares. I can, um, I can change the sheets?”

 

“No,” Derek quickly declines. “This is okay.”

 

Stiles smiles like giving up his bed to Derek was on his Christmas list this year. It's not okay that he'll be the one to get off that couch in the stinking to high heaven in the morning, but Derek doesn't have to deal with that until morning. For someone who's apparently lost months of his life, he is plenty eager to go to sleep and lose a few more hours.

 

Stiles takes the bathroom first, and Derek listens to him mumble and hum in there with a helpless sort of inability to focus on anything else as he waits. He remembers Stiles from Beacon Hills with a distracted sort of appreciation. But it wasn't like this back then. He knew how to look away, he had a reason to try and many things and people splitting his attention.

 

Half an hour later, Derek falls asleep nose buried into the pillow.

 

*

  
  


When Derek wakes up, Stiles is making coffee in a pot on the top of the stove.

 

“I skipped yesterday, but I have to go in today. You can manage it on your own for a few hours, right?”

 

“I'll be fine, Stiles.”

 

“Really? Will you be? Can you guarantee that you won't go missing on me, that no one will kidnap and torture you will a cattle prod?” Derek glares at him over the sheet he's been folding. “Because I cannot even imagine the things Cora will do to me if that happens, and my imagination is pretty damn vivid.”

 

“I'll give it my very best then,” Derek promises dryly. “For your sake.”

 

“That's all I'm asking for,” Stiles says matching the dry tone perfectly, and his heart skips like he's told a lie.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, classes. You wouldn't believe how cheap education is out here, I figured I might as well finish a couple of semesters.”

 

“You said your grandma found you a job.”

 

“That's in the evenings. It's barely work, really, they pay me to talk. It's a private English language school, they pay me to chat with their more advanced students.”

 

Derek doesn't hold back a snort of laughter. “And the magic?”

 

“That's on weekends.”

 

“And when do you sleep and eat and rescue endangered species?” Derek wants to know.

 

“Sleep is for the weak, there's plenty of fast food chains in the city and it's not like I have to go look for werewolves, Derek. I've never had to. I just turn a corner and trip on a werewolf – sometimes literally. I'm werewolf bait.”

 

“That's not a thing.”

 

“It's my thing,” Stiles assures him, puts on his jacket. “Be careful with the coffee, it's strong. There's money in the tea jar and books inside the cabinet and don't forget to try and remember stuff we can use.”

 

“Where's the dumpster?”

 

Suspicious, Stiles narrows his eyes, “Why?”

 

Derek smiles, “Never mind.”

 

Once Stiles is gone, with another few suspicious glances, Derek breaks up the offensive couch into pieces and takes them outside. The dumpster is right behind the building – it takes him less than fifteen minutes in total. He scrubs the carpet and hand washes the bedding Stiles has been using last night, then airs the room until his fingers, wrapped around a book, start to hurt from the cold. As the heat in the room goes back up, Derek carefully looks through the tiny apartment. And if he holds on a little longer onto everything that can soak in his scent, well. It's hardly the first time he's marked Stiles' living space as his own territory.

 

The little apartment is purged by the time Stiles comes home. It feels like a place Derek could spend a few comfortable weeks at, maybe longer.

 

“I...” Stiles says, standing in the middle of the room, where the couch used to be, palm rubbing his forehead. “I am not surprised. God. You're sleeping on the floor.” Derek grins up at  him from where he's reading a book on the made bed.  “If you're gonna play a housewife and clean my place up, you might as well cook dinner. That'd be very helpful.”

 

“You brought dinner,” Derek says, nodding at the take out bag Stiles is still holding in his hand. It's a weird combination of smells and spices, and he's not sure what exactly is it.

 

“Oh, that – say, how do you feel about seafood?” Whatever Derek's face is doing in response, it makes him laugh. It explains why he couldn't tell what was in the bag, though. Sea smells disorient his nose. “Yeah, I thought that might not be a Scott thing. Lucky you I'm so thoughtful.”

 

The table in the kitchen area is tiny, there's barely enough space for two plates and takeout containers. Stiles got some sort of fish-burger which has more spices, soy and artificial aromas than actual fish in it. Derek's is game, a good healthy piece of venison in some sort of berry and chestnut sauce. The difference in the quality is staggering.

 

“If you know where to find a meal of this quality, why are you living off fast food?”

 

“Hey, I like fast food,” Stiles says, and his heart doesn't even blip. “I know I said education here is cheap, but that's only when you compare it to education back home. Fast food is a good friend of mine. And it tastes good.”

 

“Well, it smells like crap,” Derek mumbles and then quietly makes peace with the fact that he will, in fact, have to cook for them.

 

“Good thing you don't have to eat it, then, right? Look, Cora's been financing this little quest ever since Deaton said he had a reason to believe you're, eh, involved, so. Don't worry about it. We can afford it.”

 

Derek hasn't been worried – he's not used to worrying about money. He nods.

 

“I haven't remembered anything. There's nothing. One moment I'm painting Laura's old room, next I'm waking up here. How is that possible?”

 

Stiles chews on his burger slowly, swallows with a frown. “Two types of wolfsbane – one to keep you weak-ish when that's necessary, the other to keep your, eh, let's say, wilder side closer to the surface. Some other herbs, too. Like geranium, to balance out your mind and your body. ”

 

“That doesn't sound bad.”

 

“You were stuck in your beta form, Derek. They used geranium to keep your mind matched. It means...”

 

“It means I was feral.” No wonder he doesn't remember anything. “There's no way I'll be of any help, then.”

 

“Well. I know it's not certain you'll remember. But you were kept feral artificially. The drug could have worn off at some point.”

 

It's six months or so of his life. He doesn't feel any consequences of it. His body has healed and his mind doesn't really know anything was wrong. Derek doesn't feel traumatized, but that's still six months of his life, gone forever.

 

He doesn't even want to know what they used him for. But.

 

“Is it really a drug, or is it a spell?”

 

Stiles blinks at him like he's surprised with the question. “Both, I guess.”

 

“Why don't you counter it, then?”

 

“Like how?” Stiles demands sharply.

“By feeding me some magical herbs that help memory. If there are plants like that.” There should be plants like that. Periwinkle, if he remembers correctly. It's what dad used on omegas barging into their territory, when they've been feral for too long and mom needed to know where they came from.

 

“Oh. I thought you wanted an ice bath. I don't like those, and I don't know how to do them.” The memory of Isaac floats between them, unvoiced. “I'll look into it. Give it a few days first, though. Some of the others have remembered bits and pieces – we made a lot of progress with it.”

 

Derek finally starts on his venison. Stiles keeps talking between bites. “We're pretty sure you're the only beta they had – which is why you lasted so much longer than anyone else. It's quite possible they kept you more heavily drugged. I guess we will try magic if you're okay with it, but I'd rather not play with your mind if we don't absolutely have to.”

 

Derek nods, more to his food than to Stiles, pathetically grateful for that thoughtfulness. For all the thoughtfulness, actually, because the venison is every bit as good as it's smelled.

 

“Anyway. I don't have any lessons on Friday, I can show you around town if you want. Or you can go on your own, I guess, if you'd rather do that, just don't go missing on me. And you should definitely buy some clothes of your own. Maybe get a haircut?”

 

Derek touches his hair. It's soft, he doesn't need anything to keep it presentable. “I don't mind it.”

 

“It's longer than Cora's,” Stiles says, but he's watching the strands framing Derek's face with a warm amusement. “Oh! I'll leave you the laptop, you can talk to her, it's only, like, mid-afternoon back home. You can see her. Sorry, I'm doing this group project-thing with a bunch of morons, they suck up all my brain power on the days we meet.”

 

“You're leaving?”

 

“Yeah, the English school. It's just for an hour and a half, just around the corner.”

 

He starts to pick up the trash, but Derek waves him off. “Go.”

 

Stiles' laptop is the weirdest thing, a mosaic of the random and disturbing. A look from anyone who doesn't know him as well as Derek does would result in an urgent call to the police. But it's left wide open and unlocked.

 

Derek has been talking to Cora for much longer than an hour and a half when Stiles comes back. He goes to the bathroom immediately, but not before Derek smells blood, werewolves and wolfsbane on him. He ends the call with Cora, waits to hear what Stiles has to say about where he's been.

 

All he gets is a mumbled, “'Night”, and can't bring himself to demand anything else because that one word sounds beyond exhausted.

  


Derek doesn't see much of Stiles before Friday. He goes out a little, walks around the neighborhood.  Gets some new clothes and finds a barber shop, the nearest grocery store. He talks to Cora every day for hours, because she has a lot of free time on her hands right now. They both do.

 

He only sees Stiles early in the morning, for a few minutes, sometimes at dinner and at bedtime, which is always late and he's always too tired to even talk by the time it rolls. But he doesn't come home again stinking of other werewolves, so Derek settles on waiting.

 

At Friday morning, Stiles alarm doesn't go off and Derek lets him sleep in. Making breakfast would wake him up, so instead Derek sneaks out to buy fresh rolls and croissants. Stiles finally gets up an hour later, around ten. He shuffles across the room in his sleeping clothes with a pleased, dopey smile.

 

“Ohh,” he says, voice still rough from sleep, fingers breaking off a big chunk of a pastry and stuffing it into his mouth. “Wanna keep you forever. Can I keep you?”

 

Derek looks up openly from his book. “Is that a dog joke?”

 

“What? _No_! I'd totally pay you.”

 

“With what? Cora's money?”

 

“With...” comes out drowned in the mouthful, so Stiles swallows first before repeating, “With charms and stuff. Humor? Oh man, there must be something you want, what is it?”  


Derek doesn't think he's that subtle, but he plays along. “I'd actually prefer it you cut back on the humor.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, before he lits up with an idea. “I know! You can have the bed. As long as I get breakfast in the morning, you get the bed at night.”

 

“With you in it?”

 

“Well, I can't promise I won't try and crawl in after a study session. But you can just kick me off, I won't get mad. A deal is a deal.”

 

“Okay,” Derek says with a smirk, but he knows if that happened, he'd just remain quiet and pretend he's asleep. “Sit down, you're getting breadcrumbs everywhere.”

 

It feels nice and already familiar to share the tiny table between them. Derek gets them plates, sour cream and honey, they balance it and the utensils around carefully. Stiles yawns between bites, eyes still red and puffy, his threadbare shirt showing off much more of his collarbone than it's healthy for someone sharing space with a werewolf. Derek doesn't try very hard not to stare.

 

“So what are we doing today?”

 

“Whatever you want. You've been busy, we can stay inside. You could rest.”

 

Stiles gets a look of a trapped animal at the suggestion. “Please, no. I need to move, I need to walk. None of my obligations are physically demanding. The idea of sitting around all day...”

 

“Whatever you want,” Derek repeats. Though... “Is there a park?”

 

“We could go down to the river. There are trees and shit.”

 

They take a detour through the Old Town. The day isn't so cold, but there are few people wandering about. They leave clear footprints in the snow on the sidewalk as Stiles leads them through narrow, sometimes cobbled streets, fenced in and hidden by tall, ornamented buildings. Stiles points out all the tourist hot sports, places Derek has heard of and vaguely remembers – the creepy cathedral, the palace with the riding school, the library. He also points out places Derek thinks most tourists never would notice in a million years – the Knights of Malta Headquaters building, the best camping equipment shop, the bookstore with the largest selection of books in English. Stiles takes pictures of Derek at random and sends them directly to Cora.

 

Once they leave the old buildings behind, they take the tram. It's mostly empty, the view on the city rushing by from it amazing. Stiles is trying to take photos through the glass, one glove off and face flushed red – until he catches Derek watching him.

 

He lowers his hands in his lap, phone still on. Frowning lightly at the not quite closed zipper of Derek's jacket, Stiles bites his lower lip viciously, with purpose, like it's helping him ground himself. Derek needs to ask what's wrong, but the sight is a little distracting.

 

Stiles speaks up first, voice pitched so low, so soft, Derek would never head him if he wasn't a werewolf. “You need to stop looking at me like that.”

 

Derek blinks away the sight of his lip red and released from his teeth to meet his eyes. “Like what?”

 

Stiles' foot starts tapping a jerky, anxious rhythm. “Like you're waiting for me to do something.” Oh, good. Derek thought the answer might be ' _like you want to eat me alive',_ and that would be a little too much.

 

Derek catches his restless foot between his ankles, to force it still. He leans forward, forearms on the tiny table between them, hoping to make this clear. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

 

“No shit,” Stiles says with a whisper of a sneer, like it's insulting to even suggest it. Then he pulls on his collar, looks away.

 

Derek leans in to pick up his phone. He takes a picture of Stiles looking blankly through the window, Vienna behind him a snow covered Arcadia. It's a really good picture. Stiles' heart is an overworked drum, his entire body is buzzing with low-leveled arousal. Derek inhales it all when he returns the phone, releases Stiles' foot, which remains still against the floor, between them.

 

“Okay,” Derek says, and then before it becomes awkward, adds with an easy smile, “Send that to Cora.”

 

He's careful not to look then. He can't help but see – can't help but _want_ , but he does have a reason now to hold back and pretend, and it's a game he knows how to play. Stiles' shoulders relax even before they board the subway train. By the time they're disturbing untouched snow in the park between an artificial lake and Danube, he's laughing again. He attempts to teach Derek some German - though his accent is terrible, he does already have a decent sized vocabulary built.

 

Instead of a proper lunch, they eat crepes at a little creperie that looks onto a frozen little lake. Stiles can't decide on the filling, so Derek orders a whole range of them – jelly, and nutella with various tropical fruit like bananas and pomegranate, and all the jams. Asserting cruelty, Stiles sends Cora and Scott pictures of the table before they dig in. Not a single crepe is left uneaten behind them.

 

It's colder, late in the afternoon. Stiles claims it's too cold to be outside, so he takes them to a shopping mall. It's more of a window shopping experience, and the building is large enough so not even the scents of many people also getting out of the cold or on about their business bothers Derek. He follows Stiles gladly as he touches stuff on random, like he's intent to scent mark the entire mall.

 

They stop for dinner on their way back, at a small rustic tavern-thing. They stay for coffee. Stiles talks about his grandparents and Poland, about Scott's determination to become a veterinarian, about some other crap Derek that went down in Beacon Hills after he'd left. The epic fallout, Stiles calls the fight he and Scott had and he sounds bitter, like it's still going on.

 

And since, unlike in America, he is legal to drink, Stiles insists that the part of Derek's tour around Vienna is to try traditional liquors. Yes, even though he won't feel the effects of alcohol - it's about the taste. And about watching Stiles become progressively redder in the face and drunker with every glass of strange liquors and bitters.

 

His apartment isn't far, so they walk back. It's getting late, and too cold even for Derek. Snow is falling again, large flakes that refuse to melt and instead stick to clothes and hair.

 

“I'll have nightmares tonight,” Stiles says, looking up at a streetlight. It sounds like he's making a decision, but Derek thinks it's meant to be a warning.

 

“Oh?”

 

Stiles turns to shrug, with a sad smile. “Too much free time to think today. To remember.”

 

“What do you dream about?”

 

“Killing people,” Stiles frowns like that's not what he's meant to say, then offers a smile that's just an ugly play of shadows. “Well, that came out wrong. I blame your awkwardly phrased question.”

 

But Derek gets it. “Did you ever actually kill anyone?”  


“Did you?” Stiles throws back, the smile a shade lighter.

 

“Not permanently.”

 

“Oh God, those do happen far too often in Beacon Hills. It's the Nemeton. We can paint it in blood and cut it down and use it for our own selfish purposes, but it's still growth, it's still life and magic. Mine stuck, though. To be fair, the guy was actively trying to eat my legs with his freaky wendigo mouth when he fell, so I'm not feeling _too_ bad about it.”

 

“I'm going to guess that the nightmares aren't about that one,” Derek decides, starts walking. Stiles falls into step with him with an expression that suggests he's not _completely_ right. He does occasionally have nightmares about that one – the chimera incident Derek wasn't there for. “Don't you have your smelly hexbag to help with them?”

 

“My awesome hexbag _is_ helping. The only thing that would make them go away is, I don't know, maybe a time traveling spell? Yeah, that'd be neat. I could undo all the shit I've been through and have done.”

 

“Very little, if any at all, of the shit you've been through has been your fault, Stiles,” Derek says, because once upon a time he needed that to be said to him and no one knew it.

 

Stiles snorts. “You're wrong. You're very, very wrong. Everything was my fault.”

 

Derek stops to look at him, because of the way his voice breaks. Like he really, honestly thinks so and can't stand it. Mildly, Derek asks, “How come?”

 

“Well. You know. The Nogitsune? Only got out because we messed with the Nemeton. We messed with it because the Alpha pack brought their past shit back to town with them – and they only came because they wanted Scott. And Scott only got bitten in the first place because I dragged him out in the middle of the night to look for a dead body.” _Laura's_ dead body. The pieces Peter left in the woods as a macabre attraction for wayward, innocent teenagers. “So. My fault. If we're really doing the fault tree analysis.”

 

Derek smells blood off him. It's only a few drops, but he'd still rather stop this conversation. He takes Stiles' hand in his and unwraps his fingers, until the nails aren't digging into the skin hard enough to break it again.

 

“So if you one day find a time traveling spell, you'll go back in time and make sure Scott never becomes a werewolf?”  


Stiles wipes his bloody fingertips off Derek's sleeve, like the little asshole he is. His face is thoughtful, though, distant. “Or... I'll go back and throttle Kate Argent in her cradle, how's that?”

 

A bit disturbing as a picture, very alluring as an idea. Derek can do nothing but breathe, in and out and in and out again, for a long minute, feeling like he's breaking apart. Finally, he manages, “That's enough time-turner turns to give you the tennis elbow.”

 

Stiles snorts and giggles, loud and bright, as if helpless to stop himself. “Oh God. Maybe I should take a quick stop and advise the thirteen-year-old me to go easy on that wrist. Tell him we'll need it to save countless lives. Though I somehow suspect he wouldn't care.”

 

Derek keeps his voice low, light. “There's a paradox in there somewhere. With Kate out of the picture, we'd never be where we are now.”

 

Stiles squeezes Derek's hand. “It isn't so bad out here. Right?”

 

Derek can't say he'd exchange his entire family for this moment, but then, that's not really what Stiles is asking him to do. So he smiles. “Not bad at all.”

 

Stiles looks down, bites his lip and then back up, all eyelashes and shyness and hope.

 

“Say...”

 

“No,” Derek cuts him off.

 

“Oh, come on. Can't I change my mind? Or is this, like, take this, the taste of your own medicine?”

 

“You can change your mind,” Derek promises, because he knows that whatever has fueled the refusal that morning wasn't the lack of interest. It was something more complicated than that, something hard to break apart and examine while drunk. “Tomorrow.”

 

“I'm only a little tipsy,” Stiles whines, which actually makes him sound drunker.

 

“I've got enough consent issues as it is, I don't need to see what's it like from the other side.” What Derek wants to say is that he needs Stiles to be sure, but that would only end in arguing. And it's not like what he's said is not true.

 

Stiles opens his mouth to argue anyway, then blinks a few times, quick. “You've been talking to someone. To a shrink.”

 

Derek laughs. “No. But I've read plenty of self-help guides. Enough to know I'm a rape victim and you're probably suffering from ptsd.”

 

“Well. You're holding my hand. It helps with emotional healing on both sides. And it's plenty more than I dared to hope for, this soon. So.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, twists his hand so he is actually holding Stiles' and tugs him along. “Come on, my hair is getting wet.”

 

It should maybe feel weird, like Derek is too old to go through a hand-holding phase. But it doesn't. The palm in his is warm, smooth and comfortable. The way Stiles' fingers twitch, almost like he's drumming a soft song against Derek's skin, feels familiar. Feels _right_ , and like he could never mistake this hand for anyone else's.

 

It's dark inside the apartment. Stiles reaches to get to the switch, which is next to the bathroom door instead of the front one, trips over something. Derek's still holding his hand, so he pulls him back.

 

“How'd you manage that?” Derek snorts, because there's nothing there to trip over.

 

“Magic,” Stiles tells him dryly, wiggling his fingers trapped in Derek's hand as if to demonstrate.

 

Only. His fingers are glowing and they both halt mid-step to stare at the bluish light.

 

“Huh.” Stiles cocks his head at it, flexes his long fingers. As they press into Derek's skin, an unexpected jolt of heat courses down his spine. He can hear the echo of it in the gasp Stiles doesn't even try to hold back and their eyes meet over the hands still fit together.

 

“Stiles,” Derek warns.

 

“Yeah. I hear you,” Stiles says, and the sound of his voice, more hoarse than ever, sends another jolt through Derek. “Consent issues. No go. Just let me try something?”

 

He waits for Derek to nod before he steps closer. That's a good thing, because the entire consent issue thing suddenly doesn't seem all that important. Stiles lifts his free hand to his mouth to wet his fingers. The gesture is not showy, not intended to be a provocation – just a quick swipe of tongue over the fingertips -  and it's only hotter for it.

 

His hand sneaks under Derek's shirt, gentle against his back. Cold fingers press against his spine for a short moment before starting to trace a strange pattern on his skin. Derek is distracted by the wet gust of air Stiles is letting out against his chin, the heady and rich smell of him, the body warmth they're suddenly sharing. Heat's spreading through his limbs, curls tight and vibrant in his gut. It's nothing he hasn't felt before, however intense, so Derek doesn't notice anything's weird. Not until Stiles takes his hand out and steps back so there's no contact between them.

 

The urgency to get Stiles' hand back is like a physical punch to Derek's head. Hardly able to think at all, he steps forward, almost trips in his haste. Stiles puts a hand against his chest, to keep him in place, eyes wide and disbelieving.

 

“What did you do to me?” Derek demands through gritted teeth, locking his knees so they don't betray him.

 

Stiles' fingers curl into Derek's jacket, “It wasn't, I'm not – _Fuck_ .” He's breathing loudly, through his mouth, eyes slipping closed. “I can _feel_ that. Am I supposed to feel that?”

 

Derek's growling his utter frustration - with the non-answer, with the inability to get closer. “Undo it.”

 

Stiles' confusion and excitement sour to the point of panic in less than a second “Oh crap. Derek, shit. I fucked up. I fucked up so badly. I _can't_.”

 

“You can't?”

 

“I can't _undo it_. It has to run its course.”

 

Derek snarls, “ _Run its course_ sounds a lot like _fuck_ to me right now, Stiles.”

 

“No – it's only spit, you can get off without me – you can even wait it out if you want, but it'll take longer. Derek – I'm - “

 

But Derek doesn't want to listen to any apologies right now. He pushes past Stiles' restraining hand and into the bathroom, hand down his pants before the door is even closed behind him.

 

The barrier between them doesn't make him feel Stiles any less. The mind-numbing lust is connected to him like there's a physical string stretched between them. Derek can hear him, standing out there in front of the door a hundred times louder than he usually is – fingers pulling on the hair, quick breaths just a slightest humidity away from being sobs, the way his throat constructs when he tries to swallow.

 

And he can see him, in his head. Everything he's been helpless not to see in the last few days is vivid like a vision before his eyes, like his eyes are wide open and staring at Stiles before him.

 

Derek doesn't bother the step out of his pants, pooled around his ankles. He's that desperate to get his hand on his cock. But it takes a only a few tugs before he finds himself relaxing, easing out of the half-crazed need to get off – Stiles is right, it'll be enough. Derek's grip is tight, the way he's always liked it best, but his hand slows as he pulls against the foreskin. He starts to breathe again, and he can hear Stiles sigh in relief in front of the door.

 

There might not be magic to compel Stiles to get off right now, but Derek is pretty sure he doesn't need magic. He steps back from the edge of the shower, leans against the door with a pleased little noise let out free to reach the other side.

 

And the response there is immediate, the mad stutter in Stiles' heartbeat and a crushed gasp in his throat. It's pure, actual magic that allows Derek to know this, when Stiles reaches to touch the smooth surface of the door that keeps Derek on the other side, pressing into it with the tips of his fingers. Derek listens to him breathe, close and loud like it's right there, inside, and moves his hand in sync with it. The pace is hardly unforgiving, and it's still only a minute before the orgasm breaks open in him.

 

Because he's shrugging the magic with it, it's a release unlike anything Derek's experienced before. He's free. He's light, unshackled and could possibly fly. He's shaking with his entire body and his mind is at ease, at peace, completely unburdened.

 

“Derek?” Comes from the other side of the door.

 

“Yeah,” Derek calls back mildly. “It worked.”

 

Stiles laughs shakily. “Yeah. I felt that. You okay?”

 

There's no words to explain just how okay, so Derek settles on, “Fine.”

 

He moves away from the door, still a bit shaky. A quick wash is all he can manage, just wanting to take a nap forever right now. And because nether the overwhelming satisfaction nor the drowsiness make one less of an asshole, he takes off the rest off his clothes and doesn't bother to clean the bathroom before he walks out.

 

Stiles is still right there, only a step from the door. The smell of his come is so dense it bites the back of Derek's throat as soon as he takes in the first breath.

 

Stiles throws his hands up in the air, as if to surrender. Or demonstrate his no-hands passage into that state. “You did that.”

 

“No,” Derek tells him, keeping his face as blank as possible. “ _You_ did that. All of that. So now you get to clean the bathroom.”

 

Stiles takes a good, searching look at him before he nods and disappears into the bathroom.

 

Derek takes the bed, feeling justified and not at all like the floor would do right now.  He slips to sleep almost immediately, like he's blacked out. It's light and dreamless, but it doesn't last long. The lights are out in the apartment when he wakes up. Stiles isn't using Derek's spot on the floor – it's a mess there, but empty. He's sitting in the chair near the window, head low and hand pressing against his neck. There’s a book on the table in front of him and he’s looking at it, but the only light in the room is filtering in through the blinds on the window, from the street. He smells like misery and guilt and, Jesus, a little like blood, too.

 

“Stiles,” Derek calls softly. Stiles jerks, heart going into overdrive and terrible smells of him intensifying. “Come here a second.”

 

Reluctantly, slowly, Stiles approaches the bed, his hands catching together in a nervous dance. Barely, he says, “What?”

 

“A little closer,” Derek instructs. He can see Stiles eye narrow suspiciously, but he does take another step, until his knees are against the mattress. Derek grabs a fast hold on him and puts him down onto the bed like a doll – he's too startled to struggle. By the time he remembers he maybe should, Derek has already positioned them both on the pillow and pinned him down with an arm and a leg.

 

“Oo- okay,” Stiles says after a bit, breathing hard.

 

“You're bleeding.”

 

“No, I'm not.”

 

Derek lifts his head to take a look at his profile, because that hasn't been a lie. “Yes. You are. I can smell it.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles breathes out, frowns. “Oh, yeah.” He lifts his hand to show it to Derek, but even he can only see so much in the dark. The smell of blood is coming from there, and so is a strong whiff of a powerful cleaning detergent. “I scraped my knuckles scrubbing the bathroom. It's nothing.”

 

“Okay. Sleep.”

 

But Stiles doesn't settle, and, “I'm sorry,” is barely a whisper.

 

“I know. You didn't expect it to work.”

 

“I sort of did. Only. Not like that.” He sighs a frustrated little sigh. “I'm used to feeling so powerless, it doesn't seem real at all until it hits me in the face.”

 

“That was... really strong,” Derek admits, though he knows that Stiles knows it already.

 

“It's sex magic. The power of the spell is proportional to the, um...” Stiles pauses and Derek smiles against his shoulder, amused. “I'm an idiot. I can invoke it, obviously, because you make it so easy, but I have no idea how to harness the resulting power for anything other than, you know, just sex. And I wasn't even thinking about that, too busy wondering if I can make it work to worry about what happens if it does work. If that makes sense.”

 

“You don't really think things through. Yeah, it makes sense.”

 

“Hey,” Stiles protests, but it's token, weak.

 

“Stop worrying. You asked, and I let you. Knowing what you're doing, and knowing full well it would work.” Derek's eyes are closed now, but can feel the nod. “And just to make it clear, my only protest is that you weren't exactly sober.”

 

Another nod, then, “Hey. Do you want to come with me tomorrow?”

 

“To your magic school?”

 

“It's hardly Hogwarts, Derek. But yeah. There are books, I want to look this up.”

 

“Okay. Now sleep.” _Please_ , Derek almost adds. He has no idea how Stiles has the energy to talk this much.

 

This time he doesn't wake up until Stiles' phone blares with the alarm. Neither one of them has had any nightmares.  


 

etc, etc, etc..

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from Eliot's The Waste Land.
> 
>  


End file.
